For the insomniac clear thoughts are a slippery silver fish, pecking at the surface of the glassy lake behind those glassy glassy eyes. It's there and it's brilliant and beautiful and then it's gone, leaving only an expanding ripple and the memory of a flash as proof that it once was. Frustration sets in. You hook nothing. Ideas tease at your line, nibbling just enough to remind you why you're there, and why you stay. Your eyes hurt, your brain hurts, your back hurts. There's a slight haze as if a mist has settled in around you, a heavy mist that settles in your lungs and waits for you to move. Your muscles are weak, your nerve endings are shot, and your eyeballs ache. But your body stays awake, refuses to quit, refuses to give in. Your mind says okay and you keep going. There is simply too much to miss. Like talking. Talking feels so good sleep isn't worth it.

Life is too short for sleep. Live on love alone.

Alliteration is key.

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